Make Me Wanna Die
by whisper.january
Summary: She is everything he's ever wanted, everything he shouldn't have, and everything he takes anyways. Scabior/Hermione
1. Chapter One

Hermione is books and small smiles and vanilla perfume. She is everything he's ever wanted, everything he shouldn't have, and everything he takes anyways. She's one of the most beautiful, loyal souls he's had the pleasure of meeting, and he's only mildly ashamed to exploit that.

It started on a hunt. Some fearful muggle-borns (he wonders when they stopped being _mudbloods_) were caught hiding out in some forest or other and he and his men were hot on their trail. It was after they had caught their bounty and were wandering about that he caught a whiff of sweet vanilla. Now, if asked, he would accredit this to his superior snatcher senses, but really after traveling about with possibly the rankest smelling man in the wizarding world- _Greyback_- something that's not exactly foul becomes unusual.

He doesn't know how or why he knew he needed to help her, but he did and regret and satisfaction are now prominent, uncomfortable emotions he carries. He certainly didn't expect to _love_ her and he certainly won't divulge that bit of information to her.

They meet when she was out gathering food. Such a pretty little thing shouldn't have to hunt her dinners herself, and she certainly shouldn't do it alone, especially if she unknowingly wanders past her own wards. He had a bit of a spat with a couple other snatchers about their lack of finds so he'd stormed off in a true show of Slytherin pettiness. He was just as surprised to see her, too. He flinches and she jumps back gasping. He narrows his eyes and takes a step forward and isn't surprised when she turns to run.

Her bushy (but lovely, nonetheless) hair flies behind her and he catches that familiar scent of vanilla in the wind.

"Wait!" he called, and began the chase.

She turned as she ran, wand in hand, and cast some spell or other that completely missed him in her rush.

"Oi!" he cried indignantly, "I just wanna chat, I promise!"

She's still running aimlessly; probably trying to avoid leading him back to her camp. Her speed is no match for his though and he tackles her to the ground, a bit rougher than intended, but it got the job done. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her perfume and knew that _this was her._

She was struggling underneath him, reaching for her wand that had been thrown from her grasp at impact.

" 'Old on a bit, love. Jus' wanna talk to you is all." He rose to his knees, still half on her and peered into her frightened, pretty brown eyes.

"I'm a halfblood! I promise, I'm a halfblood!" She looked frantic, the poor thing. Reaching over her and plucking her wand off the damp forest floor, he rose to his feet and offered her a hand. She still looked wide-eyed and terrified; eyes darting from his face to his hand.

"Calm down, darlin'. I aint here to snatch ya. I told you I just wanted to talk." He drew his hand back- she was obviously not going to take it- and watched as she stood up in a rather defensive pose.

"Talk about what, exactly? I told you, I'm a halfblood. Penelope Clearwater; you can check it!" She practically yelled, her voice becoming shrill in desperation.

Twirling her wand in his hand, he narrowed his eyes, "Clearwater, eh? Last I heard, you were safe and sound at Hogwarts." He circled her tense form, "now, my lovely, regardless of who you _really_ are I told ya I just wanted a nice chat."

She's still breathing heavily and glaring at him, but she's not running so he takes that as a good sign.

"Are you mad?! As if I would willingly _chat_ with someone like _you_!" She lunges for her wand, but he pulls back in time for her to stumble forward and miss.

"I smelt you," he blurts, feeling a bit foolish for it, "two or so weeks ago. Vanilla, that's your perfume innit?"

She narrows her eyes at him, but doesn't reveal that yes, she knows, and it scared her out of her wits when it happened.

He smiles crookedly and holds up his hands in a pose that suggests he comes in peace, despite the fact that her wand is dangling in one of those hands.

"That came out a bit off, didn't it?" he defends, "I wasn't looking for you, I swear. I just smelled that perfume again and thought hey, what are the chances?" The normally calm and self-assured snatcher was withering under her glare.

"You're not going to snatch me?" she asks hesitantly, sounding shy despite her ferocious glare.

"Cross me 'eart and hope to die if I'm lyin', love." He smiles roguishly as her glare diminishes into a mild scowl.

She doesn't know what to do with herself. She wants to run, he can tell, but she'd be a fool to leave her wand. She tenses once more in a primal attempt to make herself more intimidating

"Give me my wand back." She demands. Must've been a Gryffindor, this one.

"What in it for me?" he smirks and leans forward.

She looks bravely into his eyes for a few long seconds and he thinks maybe she's finally giving in until her fist finds his eye and he staggers back, dropping her wand. She grabs it quickly and performs a petrifying spell and he watches, unable to move as she disappears into the forest.


	2. Chapter Two

"Scabs' poutin' again." Was the quiet, yet oh so loud murmur heard round the recently produced campfire.

The snatchers, masters in the art of the hunt, still had yet to understand the importance of subtlety outside of the job. Sure, he may deserve the jab if the childish scowl on his face had anything to say about it, but his men should know that he could hex them within an inch of their life for a comment like that. Instead he crossed his arms and glared at the campfire harder.

The flesh around his eye stung in a bitter reminder of the previous day. He was angry, furious even, and on top of it all he was sick and tired of explaining his black eye. Sure, he could have healed it with a swish of his wand or a stiff potion, but Scabior was a petty man and refused.

Leaning back onto his forearms from his seat on the floor, Scabior's eyes sought out the hulking figure of one Fenrir Greyback.

"Oi! Greyback, you know anything 'bout a Penelope Clearwater?"

Fenrir looked over at Scabior with a sneer and chucked the Ministry appointed list of names at him with a growl.

"Surly old dog," Scabior muttered, pulling out his wand. Tapping the cover, he stated the name in question and the book flipped open to a random page. The words bled onto the paper as well as a photo; a new development adapted from something out of _Weasly's Wizard Wheezes_ of all places.

_Penelope Clearwater_

_Blood Status: Halfblood_

_Location: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

"Well that confirms what I already know," Scabior muttered to himself, "Now who are you _really_…"

His train of thought was interrupted by a few rowdy snatchers peering over Greyback's massive shoulders to look at something presumably filthy.

"Now _that_ is one mudblood I wouldn't mind getting my hands a bit dirty for!" One of the younger snatchers exclaimed.

"I'd cut those hands off if you even got close enough. This little mudbloods going to be my prize after we finally snatch her and the Potter kid."

Curious (and a bit disappointed that someone hadn't come up with a slag mag), Scabior joined the small crowd to find them looking at a Daily Prophet. The title was a large, bold print questioning the whereabouts of the boy who lived to piss off one of the darkest wizards of all time. Really, what else is new?

But it wasn't the story that had caught their interest; it was the photo center-page. There, standing between the infamous Harry Potter and a ginger boy he assumed was a Weasley was the sweet smelling girl from the forest.

Two of the famed 'Golden Trio', Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, pictured, are assumed to be in hiding from the Dark Lord. Their third, Ronald Weasley is said to have come down with the highly contagious _Spattergroit_….

Hermione Granger. Her name was Hermione Granger.

Bloody hell, _she_ was _Hermione Granger_! As in Harry Potter's best friend, Hermione Granger!

He gripped the book of names tightly in his hand and walked quickly to his tent. Pulling out his wand once more, he excitedly stated her name and watched as her lovely face appeared on one of the pages.

She was a bit younger than he thought, but no matter. The picture was one of her smiling, something he'd yet to see, and it was truly something to behold. The stressed, stern angles of her face had softened with joy and he vowed to himself that he'd someday see that in person. He had a lead now- her name- and he just knew they'd run into each other again. With a smirk, he leaned into his small cot and spent the night staring at the face of his not-so mystery girl.

Hermione Granger was having a bad day. Well, a bad couple of years really, but this day was particularly unenjoyable. She was in a right foul mood and she had no one to blame but herself.

What was she thinking, going so far into the forest like that? Bypassing the wards she herself had put up? Harry and Ron had a fit when she returned to the tent shaken, freezing, and empty-handed. She didn't tell them exactly what happened; just that she saw a snatcher. She didn't, however, inform them that the snatcher had seen her as well. They couldn't afford anymore worry and her wards were stronger than ever, so she kept her little terrifying adventure to herself.

She knew that anyone associated with you-know-who must be a bit messed up in the head, but this particular snatcher had been absolutely _ludicrous_! 'Just wanted to chat', as if! What kind of fool did he take her for? She hadn't earned the title of brightest witch of her age for nothing.

Still, she did notice that he seemed just a surprised to see her as she was to see him. He didn't seem to have been looking for her, even if they had crossed paths previously. She'd been a fool then as well, wearing that perfume.

The perfume had been a birthday gift from her parents, and wearing it helped alleviate the grief and homesickness. Not to mention it helped cover the smell that comes with camping and having to go days without even a quick bath.

She was broken out of her reverie by the sound of Ron and Harry bickering. This had become a usual occurrence these days, especially if it was Ron wearing the locket-turned-horcrux.

This time it was about food portions of all things. Really, Voldemort could be in the room with them and Ron would still be thinking with his stomach. She was going to let them hash it out themselves until she heard her name brought into the mix.

"Pardon me?" She inquired, noticing Harry eyeing Ron cautiously.

Ron's face matched his hair at this point and she was about to gently ask for the locket when he responded.

"We never have enough food! We need to start scavenging houses or something instead of starving ourselves!"

"Are you suggesting," she accused, "that we _steal_ from people?"

"This is a _war_, Hermione, you can't afford to keep yourself on the moral pedestal. We'd be fine for the next few days if you'd actually found _something_ yesterday!"

"How dare you, Ronald Weasley! I told you, there was nothing to find and I didn't want to stray too far and risk getting lost!" She had to remind herself over and over, like a mantra, that he was only saying such things because of the locket.

"Ron, maybe you-" Harry tried to interject, only to be cut off by a glare from Ron.

Hermione sighed deeply, running a hand through her dirty, tousled hair. "Ron, we're all stressed. It's okay to have a bit of a release every once in a while, but look at yourself. Please, please take off the locket."

With a final glare, he removed the locket and handed it to Harry. Hermione watched as the tension left his body as the dark magic was no longer affecting him. He looked up sheepishly and smiled at Harry and Hermione.

"Better?" Harry asked, slipping the horcrux around his neck.

"Loads. Sorry about that." They slipped into a casual conversation about when they'll next risk a hunt and Hermione sighed and threw herself into her cot. With a small ache in her belly and head full of worries, she fell into a deep sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

Scabior's mother used to always warn him about the dangers of want. Wanting something you know you can't have can drive you mad. Growing up rather poor, he'd wanted a lot of things but was almost always disappointed in the end_. I wish I could give you everything you want, my love, _his mother would say_, but I can barely give you what you _need. He misses his mum.

It's not that he has some dire, burning, passionate need to find her because, honestly, how girly is that? No, no, it's more of a reaction to a lack of stimulus in his daily life. What bloke wouldn't want a pretty girl to break up their monotonous days?

So Scabior had taken to simply looking at her picture when he could (and if he had a wank a time or two, it's really no one's business of his own. It's not his fault he had a good imagination). He knows he'll run into her eventually, what with the taboo on the Dark Lord's name and all. Little spitfire, that Hermione, she wouldn't be afraid to say his name. Most folks are though, so aside from a runaway here and there, business hasn't exactly been booming.

It wasn't till days later that he felt the magical tug that signified the use of the Dark Lord's name. Greyback nodded his way and called to the snatchers to apparate. The taboo would take them where they need to go.

Silently, Scabior and his men crept around the trees and shrubbery, looking for their prey. Greyback lifted a hand, signaling them to stop. Three young adults, two boys and _oh bloody hell it's her!_

They were woefully frightened as they saw the snatchers appear out of the woods, Hermione turning wide-eyed to look at Scabior.

" 'ello, beautiful."

She stumbled back, frightened, and the trio took off in a sprint.

"Well don't just hang about," Scabior shouted, "snatch 'em!"

* * *

Scabior isnothing if not a good snatcher. It wasn't long until he had the bloated boy who lived and his companions on their merry way to the ever inviting Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix met them at the gate and upon seeing her Scabior feels a cold rush of panic. He will freely admit that she is one of the most terrifying people he's ever met, but there's something unnatural to her these days. She honestly does not care for the lives of others, and well, Scabior may deliver them to death's door, but he's no executioner.

He hears Hermione release a small gasp from where she's held captive a few feet to his left and tries to tell himself that they'll be fine. He holds onto this thought tightly as they make their way into the cold manor.

As the snatchers release their prisoners to the haggard looking Malfoys, he finally gets another good look at the young muggle-born. She's terrified and lovely all at once and he swallows down the emergence of guilt that rises like bile. It's not as if he knows her, but it honestly feels that way. He's spent what feels like ages with her ministry issued photo and biography as his companion. He knows facts about her (from her shoe size to her grades) but he doesn't _know_ her. But as Bellatrix circles her like a shark, spitting out words that surely cut to the bone, he knows she's terrified and that's enough.

_What can I do?_ He thinks desperately. He's spent his entire life ignoring any sort of inner moral compass and focused on pure self-preservation. He has no idea what to do so he elects to stay silent. There's nothing he can do to save this beautiful, brave, intelligent girl he only pretends to know.

Of course this would be about the time Greyback tries to assert himself as the alpha or something (read: makes a macho-man ass out of himself) and one of his snatchers is found with some silly sword.

The sword ends up being not so silly, it seems, as Bellatrix hurls curses and flings them out of the room. Scabior was more than a little scared and Greyback just snarled and muttered something under his breath as he made to leave. Scabior didn't follow.


End file.
